Page 48 of Duty Devoted
“There was this other time in Somalia,” he continued, stripping off his wet shirt without self-consciousness. The movement was fluid, practiced, speaking of years of changing in less-than-ideal conditions. “Sandstorm, not rain, but same principle. Visibility down to maybe three feet, sand getting into everything—and I mean everything.”
“Jace rigged up this whole ventilation system using MRE boxes and duct tape. Must have used six rolls of tape. Looked ridiculous but actually worked. We called it the Jace Air 3000. He even made a logo.”
I turned away as he changed, ostensibly organizing our supplies but really trying not to stare at the play of muscles across his back. Each movement revealed new scars, a road map of survived dangers. My own wet clothes felt like they weigheda thousand pounds, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to every inch of skin, but I couldn’t bring myself to change in front of him.
Not after almost squishing him a few hours ago. The memory made my cheeks burn despite the chill.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” Logan said, now in dry cargo pants and a black T-shirt. His voice carried that practical tone that meant he was thinking tactically, not personally. “Hypothermia’s a real risk, even in this heat.”
“I’m fine.” The words came out more defensive than I’d intended.
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t push. I could see him cataloging my stubbornness, filing it away. Instead, he pulled out two nutrition bars and offered me one, the wrapper crinkling in the quiet space. “Okay, maybe in a little while. Here. We missed lunch with all the running and hiding.”
“I’m not hungry.” My stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, betraying me.
“Lauren, you need to—” He stopped, really looking at me for the first time since we’d gotten inside. His expression shifted from practical concern to something more perceptive. I’d positioned myself as far from him as the small space allowed, pressed against the opposite wall like a sulky teenager, arms wrapped around myself.
“Okay, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I focused on a water stain on the wall, shaped vaguely like Australia.
“Right. That’s why you’re acting like I’ve got the plague.” He set the nutrition bars aside on the desk with deliberate movements and leaned against it, arms crossed. The pose was casual, though his eyes were anything but. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” My voice sounded thin even to my own ears.
“Lauren.” Just my name, but weighted with patience and determination.
“I said I’m fine.” The words came out sharper, edged with the embarrassment I was trying so hard to hide.
“You’re standing as far away from me as physically possible in a room the size of a closet. You won’t eat, won’t change out of wet clothes, and you’ve barely looked at me since—” He paused, and I could practically see the pieces clicking together in his mind. “Since we hid from those scouts.”
Heat flooded my face. Of course he’d figured it out. The man noticed everything, cataloged every detail with that tactical mind of his. He probably had my mortification levels calculated down to the percentage, could read my body language like a mission brief.
“It’s nothing,” I mumbled, addressing my words to the fascinating water stain.
“Try again.” His voice remained patient, but I could hear the determination underneath.
“Logan, please just—” I gestured vaguely at nothing, hoping he’d let it drop.
“No.” His voice stayed calm but firm, the tone that meant he’d made a strategic decision and wouldn’t be swayed. “We’re stuck here at least all night, maybe longer. Whatever this is, we’re dealing with it now. Were you scared? That would be totally understandable. Let’s talk it out.”
“No, I wasn’t scared. I mean, yes, I was, but…” Damn it, I didn’t want to say any of this. The words felt stuck in my throat, tangled with two years of built-up insecurity.
“But what? It’s okay to tell me. I can almost promise you, whatever emotions you were feeling—fear, anger, annoyance at that dude’s gross floral cigarettes—I’ve had it.” His understanding tone made him sound like a therapist. “You assume that in a life-threatening situation, you’d be focused onwhatever is most likely to get you killed. But that’s not always the case. It can be a number of things.”
His understanding tone somehow made it worse. I pressed my palms against my eyes, feeling everything I’d been holding back trying to claw its way out. The rational part of my brain screamed at me to shut up, to maintain some dignity, but the words came anyway, spilling out like water through a broken dam.
“I crushed you.”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the storm outside. Then, “What?”
“When we were hiding. I was on top of you, and I know I’m not exactly a lightweight, and you couldn’t move me because I’m too—” I stopped, hating how pathetic I sounded, how small my voice had become.
“Too what?” His voice had gone very quiet, very careful.
“Too big. Too solid. Too much like a linebacker instead of the kind of woman men actually want to—” The words tumbled out faster now, two years of accumulated hurt mixing with today’s humiliation. “I just mean, I know I’m not feminine or delicate or any of the things men want. And then after, you’ve barely looked at me, and obviously, you don’t want?—”
“Stop.”
